


Worlds Apart

by Suzie_Shooter



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Explosions, F/M, Guns, Jealousy, Kidnapping, M/M, Masked ball, Mild Peril, No Sex, Venezia | Venice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 21:38:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12466460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: Sequel toEnds Of The Earth. (Musketeers as modern-day mercenaries)Athos is working a job undercover in Venice, but when Constance is kidnapped it's not long before the others fetch up there hot on her trail. D'Artagnan is willing to risk his neck and everyone else's to get her back, Porthos is having to deal with the fact Athos' cover involves him posing as someone else's husband and Aramis finds himself in the unenviable position of having to keep everybody in line...





	1. Chapter 1

"I'll fucking get you for this!"

D'Artagnan leaned over the rail of the cabin cruiser and gave the man gesticulating wildly at him from a small inflatable life raft a cheerful wave.

"You'll have to catch me first Marcheaux. There's a lot of paddling between you and the nearest land from here. Oh, wait, did I forget to give you the oars?" D'Artagnan put a hand behind his ear, the better to catch the renewed stream of invective with a happy sigh. "You know, I'd sit down if I were you, there's sharks in these waters," he advised. "You don't want to capsize that thing."

"You think this is over?" Marcheaux screamed. "I will hunt you down and destroy everything you love!"

D'Artagnan waved an expressive hand to take in the boat he'd just hijacked, including its hold full of illegal armaments. "Not with this consignment, though, eh? The port authorities are about to get one hell of an early Christmas present."

The wake of the departing cruiser set Marcheaux's life raft bobbing alarmingly, and his final threats were lost in the roar of the engines as d'Artagnan headed for the coast.

\--

Three days later d'Artagnan let himself into the London flat to be welcomed by Aramis, who gave him a fast hug then slapped him on the back.

"I hear you were successful. Nice work."

"And all achieved without having to sink his stupid ship," d'Artagnan grinned. "Which means Athos owes me twenty quid."

"You might have to wait a while to collect, he's out of the country," Aramis told him. "On honeymoon."

D'Artagnan looked at him in surprise. "He and Porthos got married?" he asked, feeling vaguely hurt they hadn't waited for him to get back. But Aramis shook his head with a laugh.

"No, fake honeymoon I should have said. The Marquis de Feron's up to his old tricks, convening a number of very suspect people in Venice under the cloak of a masked ball for his niece's birthday. One of the invited couples was – persuaded – to pass on their invite, allowing us to insert our people in their place."

D’Artagnan looked wistful. "You couldn't have given me that job? I could have taken Constance, she's always wanted to go to Venice."

"You weren't here. Anyway, do you really want to involve Constance in this game? If they're uncovered as imposters it'll be dangerous."

"I suppose you're right. Who's he gone with then?" D'Artagnan smirked. "I mean, I'm assuming it's not just Porthos in a dress." 

Aramis laughed. "No, he’s taken Sylvie."

"And Porthos doesn't mind?"

"It's business."

"Yeah, but still. Fake-married in one of the most romantic cities in the world? I've seen films," d'Artagnan grinned. "I know how that can end."

"Porthos is a big boy, I'm sure he'll cope," Aramis said. "Look, why don't you head off? I'm sure Constance will be glad to see you back in one piece, and I've got things covered here."

\--

An hour later d'Artagnan was walking up the front path to Constance's house in the suburbs. He'd had no reply to the text he'd sent and knew he ran the risk of her not being at home at all given that she wasn't expecting him, but he had a key. 

Preoccupied with unfastening his motorbike helmet and pulling off his gloves, d'Artagnan was on the front step before he noticed that the door was standing slightly ajar.

He pushed it cautiously wider, noting the splinters of wood around the catch.

"Constance?" he called quietly. There was no answer, and the house felt empty.

Quietly he stepped inside, pulling a gun from inside his leather jacket.

"Constance? It's me," he called a little louder. "Are you home?"

Still no answer, and with skin prickling uncomfortably he walked through the downstairs. Living room, dining room and kitchen were all empty and he was about to turn back and try upstairs when a picture stuck to the fridge caught his eye. 

Incongruously fastened behind a pink cupcake magnet, it was a photograph showing a terrified looking Constance with a gun to her head – held by Marcheaux.

D'Artagnan ripped the picture down, sending the magnet flying across the room and stared at it in horror. It had been taken here in the kitchen. After a second he flipped it over. Scrawled on the back were just two words. 

_Found you._

\--

With no indication of where Marcheaux might have taken her, d'Artagnan made a frantic call to Aramis to tell him what had happened and to make him start looking. In turn Aramis called Porthos, and a few hours later the three men were gathered in the flat going over the possibilities. D'Artagnan was determined to think the worst, and wouldn't be comforted.

"I'm sure she's fine," Porthos reassured him. 

"How the fuck would you know?" d'Artagnan snapped at him. "You don't know Marcheaux, so what are you basing that on exactly?"

Porthos gave him a stony look. "I'm basing it on the fact that if he'd killed her he'd have left the body for you to find."

D'Artagnan went pale, and Aramis patted him on the shoulder. "Porthos is right. He's got no reason to hurt her yet. And Marcheaux's a scumbag, but he's got no history of sexual violence. It's you he wants revenge on. He wants you scared and not thinking straight."

"We'll find her," Porthos promised, more sympathetically. He was remembering when he'd been the frantic one, and d'Artagnan had argued for him to be allowed to help find Athos. That had been the best part of a year ago now, and Porthos had since become an integral part of the team, but he still felt a little like the new boy at times.

D'Artagnan nodded, grateful but bleak. "How?" he pleaded.

Aramis sat down. "I'm running travel searches on his known aliases but it'll take a while, and that assumes he's left the country. If he's holed up here somewhere he'll be harder to find."

A chime from the search programme drew Aramis' attention back to the computer. "That's funny, I wasn't expecting a result nearly so soon."

D'Artagnan stared at him anxiously. "Anything? Tell me we got lucky."

Aramis clicked a couple of times then looked surprised. "Well that explains it. He used his own name. A private jet chartered in the name of Georges Marcheaux left London City Airport at 12.05. Four passengers."

"He wants you to find him," Porthos realised. "He's looking for round two."

"Where are they going?" d'Artagnan demanded urgently. "Where's he taken her?"

Aramis scrolled down, then slowly looked up in surprise. 

"Venice."

\--

Porthos looked around unenthusiastically. He'd never been to Venice before but had always associated it with romance and glamour, picturing lavish canal-side hotels and gleaming wooden gondolas. However, in the interests of discretion, Aramis had rented a crumbling house in a district that seemed to be mostly warehouses and smelt unpleasantly of rot. They’d also hired a small motorboat that stank strongly of diesel, of which the best thing that could be said was that it masked the scent of the filthy water.

"We should tell Athos we're here," Porthos said, eager to see him after what had been two weeks apart. Aramis though, seemed less than enthusiastic.

“We don’t want to blow his cover,” he mused. “Any contact with him comes at a high risk.”

“All the more reason for him to know we’re here,” Porthos argued. “If he saw one of us unexpectedly it could throw him. You really think it’s a coincidence Marcheaux came to Venice?”

Aramis conceded the point. “He has worked for Feron in the past, it’s conceivable he still is. D’Artagnan, what do you think?”

To Porthos’ relief, d’Artagnan nodded. 

“If Athos has seen Marcheaux, we need to know. He can keep his eyes and ears open anyway. If this lead doesn’t pan out this is a hell of a city to search blind.” 

Aramis had managed to trace one instance of Marcheaux using his credit card since arriving in Venice, to book into a hotel. It seemed a remarkably lax move to be genuine and they were assuming it was at best a blind and at worst a trap. But currently it was all they had, and d’Artagnan was impatient to be off. 

“Alright.” Aramis nodded and Porthos jumped to his feet, but Aramis’ next words came as a blow.

“I’ll make contact with Athos. You two start with the hotel.”

“But I - ” Porthos started to object, until Aramis quelled him with a look. 

“Do I need to make it clear our objective here is recovering Constance?”

Porthos swallowed down the guilty knowledge that his desire to see Athos had indeed been at the forefront, and looked indignant. “Marcheaux probably knows what you look like,” he pointed out. “Surely I’m the more logical choice?”

“You have the least undercover experience of any of us, and you’re the one Athos is most likely to be startled by seeing here,” Aramis said calmly. “I’ve given you your task Porthos, go with d’Artagnan. Stop him doing anything rash,” he added in an undertone, and Porthos turned round to find that d’Artagnan had already disappeared.

Mollified by the thought that Aramis at least trusted him with this, while not entirely blind to the suspicion that that was precisely why he’d said it, Porthos took off after d’Artagnan in a hurry.

Left behind, Aramis sighed. Porthos had had a good point about being the least likely to be recognised, but he couldn’t help the lingering misgivings he had over how Porthos might react to seeing Athos and Sylvie in character together. Knowing objectively your partner was posing as someone else’s husband and seeing him do it were two very different things, and while Aramis hoped he was being uncharitable, he figured it wasn’t worth taking a risk that could easily be avoided.

\--

To their slight surprise the receptionist at Marcheaux’s hotel confirmed to Porthos and d’Artagnan that a man of his description had indeed checked in under that name, but this brief spark of hope was quickly doused when she informed them that he wasn’t currently in residence. 

A concentrated charm offensive coupled with a discreet bribe slipped across the counter finally got them the information that Marcheaux had gone out barely half an hour earlier, alone, dressed in black tie. 

“Do you know where he was going?”

“No, but anyone who’s anyone knows there’s only one party worth attending tonight,” she’d smiled. 

The name she gave was all too familiar to them, and after finding out where it was being held they thanked her profusely and retreated outside for a hasty discussion.

“Are we sure he brought Constance here at all?” Porthos asked. “I mean – checking into a hotel under his own name and swanning off to Feron’s party doesn’t strike me as the actions of a man keeping somebody locked up here. Where’s he got her? What if all this is a red herring and she’s still in England somewhere?”

D’Artagnan shook his head obstinately. “She’s here, I can feel it. I don’t know what game Marcheaux’s playing, but when I find him I’m going to beat it out of him.”

“So now what? Do we follow him to the party?” A sudden fear gripped Porthos, and he grabbed d’Artagnan’s arm. “Here, does he know what Athos looks like as well? He could blow his cover.”

“I don’t think they’ve met. But then, he found out enough about me to discover where Constance lives,” d’Artagnan said gloomily. “He may have researched all of us. He’ll know him by name and reputation, certainly. Reasonable to assume he’s seen a picture.”

“We should warn Athos.” 

“Aramis will have warned him already by now,” d’Artagnan pointed out. “Nothing’s more likely to stack the odds against his cover than all of us turning up there in quick succession.” 

Porthos stared at him in surprise. “I’d’ve thought you’d be raring to get after Marcheaux.”

“We don’t actually know that’s where he’s gone,” d’Artagnan cautioned. “This is Venice, people dress for dinner when they’re popping out for a pizza. I don’t want to miss him by running off on a wild goose chase. No, we’ve had confirmation he’s staying here, and I’m not moving until he comes back.”

Porthos fidgeted restlessly. “That could be hours. Look, why don’t I go along to the hotel? Just to scope it out, like?”

“You won’t get in without an invite. Security’ll be shit hot.”

“I’ll be careful,” Porthos promised. “I’m not going to do anything that’s going to put Athos _or_ Constance at risk. But I need to be doing something, I’m no good at just waiting around.”

“Alright.” Decision made, d’Artagnan looked relieved. Impatient by nature, he was no more looking forward to an extended stake-out than Porthos was, despite knowing it was the most likely way to get a lead on Constance. But Porthos was right, with two of them they could cover both angles.

“I’ll call you if I see him,” Porthos promised, and leaving the boat with d’Artagnan in case he needed to follow on at speed, hailed a water-taxi.

\--

The outside of the palazzo was wreathed in lanterns and enormous twisting vines that looked like they’d been growing there for centuries, but judging by the new-looking pots had been brought in for the occasion. In the growing twilight they gave the façade the feel of a fairytale castle, reinforced by the gorgeous shimmering gowns and fantastical masks of the guests arriving by gondola.

Porthos kept to the shadows and watched the arrivals pouring in, many of them lingering in the courtyard in the warm evening air to drink their first glass of champagne and to appreciate the setting. 

After several minutes of fruitless surveillance Porthos sighed. He’d seen pictures of Marcheaux but never met the man in the flesh, and conceded it was going to be hard to pick him out when everyone was masked, guests and staff alike. He was about to give up and return to d’Artagnan when he suddenly he saw someone he did know. A figure he would have recognised anywhere, regardless of the exquisite ivory-coloured devil’s mask covering most of his face. Athos. 

On his arm was a woman Porthos took to be Sylvie, her full, wine dark dress gleaming in the candlelight like old blood and a feathered owl mask tied across her eyes. She was laughing at something Athos was saying then leaning in to him conspiratorially, whatever she whispered making Athos laugh in return. He was pointing something out to her and Porthos briefly shrank back into the shadows before realising Athos had only been looking at a gilded cage full of mechanical birds.

For a moment Porthos could only stare at them, feeling oddly breathless and jealous. Somehow the picture they presented wasn’t what he’d expected, although he found it hard to say what that would have been. The way Sylvie was looking around with such open wonder at the lavish surroundings, the way Athos was taking such solicitous interest, his arm never leaving her waist for a moment, it hurt like a knife in the ribs.

Porthos gritted his teeth, and forced himself to be sensible. What had he expected, that they’d be lurking in the shadows and swapping coded messages? They were posing as a married couple, of course they had to look convincing. Just – not that convincing, Porthos thought irritably. 

He ran through what he knew about their mission in his mind. Athos was posing as Frederick de Crecy, head of a software company known for developing items of great use to the intelligence community, and less than fussy about which side he sold to as long as the price was right. They were hoping Feron would approach him with an offer that would both shed light on Feron’s current nefarious activities, and that they could use as evidence against him.

Reclusive by nature of his work, other than being a white male in his thirties no one was entirely sure what de Crecy looked like which had served well to their advantage. The real de Crecy had had no intention of attending this party, but had proved willing enough to pass on his invitation for an extortionate price.

Claudette de Crecy, née Greene, had been one of his developers, reportedly responsible for creating a certain piece of software that had made de Crecy millions. Rumour had it that when she’d pressed for a fairer cut of the proceeds, de Crecy had suggested marriage instead and she’d accepted. When he’d first heard the story, Porthos couldn’t decide if de Crecy was a skeevy creep or Claudette was an opportunistic gold-digger, but watching Athos and Sylvie now making their way into the hotel he suddenly found himself hoping after all that it had been as much a love-match for the real couple as they were playing it.

\--

“This is incredible.” Sylvie stared up at the ornate staircase twisting up from the lobby, the hanging chandeliers, the oil paintings in their ancient frames that looked to be genuine old masters. Her role was that of a woman from humble beginnings who’d married into money, and it was proving an easy task to keep up the appearance of wide-eyed wonder.

“How the other half live eh?” Athos murmured, and Sylvie snorted, elbowing him discreetly in the ribs. 

“Like you don’t live in a fucking manor house,” she retorted, hiding the words behind her fan. “Do you have any idea how many starving people you could feed on what this all cost?”

“Vive la révolution,” Athos smiled. “But not tonight, eh?”

“Oh, I’ll settle for taking them down from a distance.” Sylvie took his arm and they strolled into the ballroom, eyes roaming over the crowd for any of their marks. 

Ostensibly a birthday party, while there were plenty of pretty young things making merry with the unselfconscious excess of the disgustingly rich, there were also several knots of older people around the edges of the dancefloor, conversing in low voices at odds with the noise level of the room.

“There.” Athos indicated discreetly with his head, while apparently studying a portrait on the wall. “Feron, over by the punchbowl.”

Sylvie glanced over his shoulder, taking in the whole room without seeming to linger on any one part of it. 

“Is that a wig?”

“One of the most politically devious and troublesome influences of our time, and your first concern is his hair-do?”

“It’s totally a wig.” They moved out onto the dancefloor together, letting the press of the crowd bring them unobtrusively closer.

“Shit.” 

“What is it?” Sylvie looked up at the quiet exclamation, and Athos turned her discreetly in his arms so that they were facing opposite directions.

“The man talking to Feron. It’s Lucien Grimaud.”

“You know him?”

“More to the point he knows me. By sight.”

“You’re wearing a mask,” Sylvie pointed out with a smile.

“Let’s hope it’s enough. I did make rather an impression on him, last time we met.”

“With a devastating conversational put-down?”

“Mmn. That and my fist.” 

Sylvie gave a low laugh of approval, studying the two men over Athos’ shoulder. “I’m assuming his presence suggests you were right about this party just being a front?”

“Certainly lends it credence.” Athos sighed. “I was hoping Feron would approach me about buying the programme, but as long as Grimaud’s with him I don’t dare attract his attention.”

“Grimaud doesn’t know me though, right?” Sylvie mused. “And it is supposed to be my code we’re flogging? De Crecy’s just the figurehead, correct?”

“Yes, but - ”

“Did you bring me here just to look pretty, or would you like me to be actually useful?”

Athos conceded defeat with a smile. “Be careful.”

Sylvie pursed her lips. “Where’s the fun in that?” Picking up a glass she left him by the buffet table and he watched her cross the room, moving elegantly between the various waltzing couples before effecting to be right in the way just as Grimaud turned, spilling her champagne.

“Oh!” Sylvie swiped at the soaked front of her dress as Grimaud stared at her in startled annoyance. Feron though, much to her satisfaction, exclaimed over the calamity and fussed round her solicitously.

“Mademoiselle, please accept my deepest apologies, Lucien is a clumsy oaf. Here, allow me.” Feron produced a voluminous handkerchief and dabbed impertinently at her cleavage. “Lucien, fetch Miss - ?”

“De Crecy. Claudette de Crecy.”

“Oh, indeed?” Feron’s gaze sharpened briefly with interest. “Fetch Madame de Crecy another drink at once.”

“Fetch it yourself,” Grimaud snarled. “I’m not your butler.” He stalked off into the crowd. 

“I’m terribly sorry, he has the manners of a witless polyp,” sighed Feron, beckoning over a waitress bearing a tray of champagne. “Here, allow me.” With a little bow, he presented her with a fresh glass. “I trust this unfortunate mishap has not spoiled your enjoyment of the party?”

“On the contrary, it was quite refreshing,” Sylvie demurred, making him laugh in a way that made her wince inwardly. “But you have me at a disadvantage Monsieur, you seem to know me? I am ashamed to say I don’t know whom I have the honour of addressing?” Wondering for a second if she was laying it on too thick, but Feron seemed delighted with the exaggerated courtesy.

“My name is Philippe Feron, and I have the dubious honour of hosting this little gathering.”

“Oh my goodness, you’re our host, please forgive me!” Sylvie clasped his wrist with unwarranted familiarity. “My husband has been dying to meet you,” she added, figuring that now Grimaud had gone it would be safe for Athos to come over and join them.

“Ah, but you must allow me the pleasure of your company all to myself for a moment,” Feron countered. “Let me see now, you can perhaps address a little rumour I have heard – de Crecy’s software – you are in fact his chief developer is this true?”

“It is.”

“So you do all the hard work while he takes the credit?” Feron teased, although there was a certain edge to his tone that suggested he was sounding her out. Sylvie let him think she’d taken the bait.

“Well – I’m sure he wouldn’t see it like that.”

“I’m sure,” Feron murmured, taking her arm. “I wonder – would you have a moment to hear out a small business proposal?”

“My husband should probably - ”

“Oh I don’t think we need to trouble him with it. Do you?”

From across the room Athos watched in consternation as Feron lead Sylvie away from the dancefloor. Attempting to follow, he was stymied when they stepped out into an anteroom, closing the door firmly behind them. 

“Bollocks.” 

\--

Outside, Porthos was coming rapidly to the conclusion he was serving no purpose by hanging around in the falling dusk, and that even if Marcheaux was inside, Athos had a better chance of spotting him than he did. There was a mist rising from the canal that made him shiver and he was about to give it all up as a waste of time when someone came hurrying out of the hotel.

He glanced up automatically but it wasn’t Athos, and Porthos was about to turn away again when the man ripped off the plain black domino mask he’d been wearing and ditched it unceremoniously into the canal. Porthos frowned. It wasn’t Marcheaux either, but he recognised the man from somewhere. 

Aramis had provided them with pictures of all Marcheaux’s known associates, and a quick scroll through the images on his phone confirmed his suspicion that this was one Lucien Grimaud. 

Porthos would have followed, but Grimaud stepped into a boat and gave an inaudible instruction to the gondolier. Swearing under his breath and wishing he hadn’t left the motor-launch with d’Artagnan, Porthos retraced his steps down the passage he’d been skulking in until he came to a stretch near an intersecting canal. There was no-one around and it was the work of a minute to untie one of the small boats and push off from the side. The fact he didn’t have the key was no barrier to a man with Porthos’ background, and soon the boat was spluttering out into the main waterway in pursuit.

With an engine at his disposal, however low powered, Porthos soon caught up with his quarry. His initial worry that Grimaud would notice the tail proved unfounded as there was enough evening water traffic that he went unremarked, but Porthos knew if they disappeared into the maze of the smaller canal network he’d quickly draw attention.

Sure enough, after a few more minutes Grimaud turned off the main waterway and eased into a narrow inlet between overhanging buildings. Porthos slowed down, cautiously motoring right past the entrance whilst trying to covertly peer into the darkness. To his relief Grimaud seemed oblivious to the possibility of pursuit and was paying off the gondolier, climbing carefully out onto a set of old stone steps, worn smooth with age and water action. 

Circling on the canal, Porthos waited until the gondolier had passed him going back the way he’d come then aimed his stolen boat slowly into the dank shadows.

As Porthos hastily tied off and scrambled up the slippery steps, his main fear was that Grimaud might have already disappeared into one of the nearby buildings. To his relief he could hear faint footsteps ahead of him, and for several minutes shadowed the man through a network of increasingly narrow and run-down alleyways. 

It was certainly easier to follow someone on foot than on water, and there were plenty of doorways and passages for him to duck into whenever Grimaud looked like turning around. For the most part he didn’t, moving with a purposeful stride that managed to convey a certain irritation.

Finally Grimaud halted, looking both ways before banging smartly on a door with his fist.

Porthos, who’d thrown himself into an alcove at the first threat of discovery, leaned out again to watch what happened. After a moment the door creaked open and there was a muted exchange of conversation which to his annoyance he was too far away to hear. 

He was wondering what to do when Grimaud disappeared inside, leaving the door open behind him. Porthos decided the chance of getting a glimpse inside was worth the risk of being seen and was just sneaking closer when the door unexpectedly opened wider and someone stepped out.

The initial relief that it wasn’t Grimaud was overtaken by panic as Porthos recognised Marcheaux. So much for being safely out of the way at the party he thought grimly, hurriedly turning his back to stare at the nearest doorway, thinking fast. 

He could knock on the door, pretend he had legitimate business in this neighbourhood. But the door was old and peeling and drifts of rubbish were piled up on the stoop suggesting long abandonment; knocking might make him look more out of place than ever. Marcheaux was getting closer, and Porthos had only seconds to think of a plausible excuse for being in this particular alleyway.

“Hey. You. What are you doing there?” Marcheaux rapped out suspiciously, coming to a halt behind the stranger lurking in the shadows.

“Scusi?” Porthos muttered, keeping his head down as he turned. Marcheaux abruptly leapt backwards with a horrified exclamation as a stream of piss narrowly missed his shoes.

“What the fuck – you revolting old – ” Marcheaux glared at him and hurried away, just as he’d hoped.

Porthos allowed himself a muffled snigger, and tucked himself away again. A glance back down the passage suggested that the original door was firmly shut again, and he considered his options. He could investigate further on his own, or alert the others. He had no proof that Constance was inside, but on the other hand if something went wrong no-one would know where to find him.

He retreated to a safe distance where he could still keep an eye on the door and pulled out his phone.

“Aramis? I think I know where they’re holding her.”

\--

Sylvie looked around the room Feron had lead her into, hiding her unease. She’d expected a private conversation but there were three other people there seated around a table, two men and a woman, all looking at her expectantly.

Feron bowed formally to them. “May I present Madame de Crecy. Claudette – may I call you Claudette? – we represent certain – business concerns, shall I say? We have heard some intriguing rumours about this latest piece of software you have developed. Perhaps you could expand upon it for us? I assume it is for sale?”

“Everything’s for sale.” Sylvie gave him a hard smile. “But it doesn’t come cheap.” 

“I think you will find money is not a particular issue, in this case,” Feron assured her with a dismissive flick of his hand. “But obviously the product would need to be worth it.”

“Obviously.” Sylvie perched on the end of the conference table, looking down at them with an assessing gaze. “Networked computer systems. Everyone knows they’re vulnerable; with the right know-how any teenage hacker can access virtually any system across the globe. But there are some systems it’s harder to penetrate. Stand-alone set-ups with no internet connection, no wifi, no convenient back-door to sneak in through. Single computers, isolated networks, the ones that are never going to fall prey to a casual virus, or attempted denial of service. The interesting ones, in other words.”

She slid off the table again and started pacing slowly round the room, knowing by their silence that she had their attention. 

“How do you get into those? The ones that are hiding something worth having? The high-security money houses, the government black sites. The missile installations.” She stopped, looking from one of them to another, catching each eye in turn. 

“You have a way?” The question came from the woman, grey hair and a severely cut suit hardly appropriate for a masked ball, and apparently much less patience with showboating than her colleagues. But at least it showed interest. 

“Both a way in, and a way of bringing that system to a standstill.”

There was a buzz of muttered conversation, and this time it was the man to Feron’s right who had an objection. “You could get the same effect with an EMP charge. If we wanted to bring down a network why should we pay you for a more complicated way of doing it?”

Sylvie gave him a pitying look. “If you want to steal a car you don’t do it with a car-bomb. I’m not talking about breaking something. I’m talking about freezing it. And about the ability to bring it back into use at a moment of your own choosing.” 

“Like an on-off switch?” Feron said eagerly.

“Crudely, yes.”

“How does it work?” He smiled. “Crudely speaking, of course.”

“Nearly all computers are made the same way, have virtually the same building blocks inside. There is a circuit board that was in manufacture for about ten years, conservative estimates suggest it’s present in at least seventy five percent of machines in use today. We have a way of hijacking one of the components via radio frequency.”

“Only seventy five percent?” The woman didn’t sound impressed. 

“Like I say, that’s the minimum. It may be higher.” Sylvie spread her hands. “I admit, it’s less likely to work on the newer generation of machines. But upgrading infrastructure is costly and risky. Most of the larger organisations will still be running older machines. They may even feel the pressure to upgrade is lower, if they’re on an isolated network. They feel safe.”

The interest level in the room by now was palpable. Sylvie did her best to look disinterested while a hurried conversation went on between the rest.

“We would need a demonstration, of course.”

“Naturally.”

Feron nodded. “In which case – in anticipation of a successful trial, perhaps we should discuss terms? Assuming we were to purchase this facility from de Crecy – how much of the payment would you see?”

“I’m his wife. What’s his is mine. Theoretically.”

“How felicitous. No awkward pre-nuptial agreements, I assume?” 

Sylvie gave him a calculating look. “What are you getting at?”

“If we were to make a discreet offer to yourself – directly – might there perhaps be advantageous terms?”

Sylvie laughed. “You’re after a discount?”

A look of annoyance passed over Feron’s face. “Good business is good business. All I’m saying is the payment could be made to whichever account you see fit, and de Crecy needn’t know. But it’s up to you, I’m sure.”

“Can I think about it?”

Feron got to his feet and ushered her towards the door. “I suggest you don’t take too long, madame. You are staying at the hotel directly across from here, are you not? I shall send an envoy tomorrow morning for your answer. And with details of the demonstration we shall expect you to perform.” 

Holding her gaze sternly, making sure the message had got through that he knew exactly where to find her. Sylvie shivered despite herself, giving him a stiff nod of acknowledgement.

When the door had closed behind her, Feron took a phone out of his pocket and dialled a number. 

“Lucien? We’re in business.” 

\--

Huddled in the mouth of an alleyway just beyond the door under careful observation, three men held a whispered argument.

“There’s three of us and only one of him, why don’t we just break in?” d’Artagnan demanded.

“Firstly, we have no idea if Grimaud is actually alone, and secondly if it turns out Constance isn’t in there after all, we’ll be done for breaking and entering,” Aramis pointed out.

“We can’t just stand here all night,” Porthos objected, feeling that if he’d known things were going to turn into this much of a faff he’d have gone in ahead of them. 

Suddenly the door in question opened, throwing a shaft of light out onto the street that made them all push back into the shadows, shushing each other irritably as everyone managed to step on everyone else.

To their relief the light snapped off shortly afterwards and Grimaud came out. Locking the door behind him he marched off in the opposite direction. D’Artagnan was two paces after him before Aramis had grabbed him by the collar.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“We can’t let him get away!”

“Or, we could take the opportunity to have a look inside?”

D’Artagnan blinked at him, pulling fussily out of his grasp and re-settling his jacket. He’d been obsessing for so long over the idea of smacking Constance’s location out of someone that he’d briefly forgotten they may already have found it. 

“Come on then. What are we waiting for?”

“We need to be – ” Aramis broke off, as d’Artagnan had already run across the passage and was busy forcing the lock. “Careful,” he sighed.

They followed d’Artagnan across and slipped inside with him, standing in the dark space beyond, listening intently. All seemed quiet, and after a second Porthos felt about on the wall by the door and clicked the lights on, making the others jump.

“Do you mind?” Aramis hissed, and Porthos shrugged. 

“There’s no one here. And it’s better than fumbling about in the dark.” He grinned. “For once.”

They were standing in a hallway, the peeling wallpaper and cracked floor tiles suggesting the house had been abandoned for some time. But the electric was on, and Grimaud and Marcheaux had been here for a reason. 

A rickety looking wooden staircase curved towards the upper floors, and Porthos tested the lowest tread dubiously. It creaked, and Aramis caught his arm.

“I wouldn’t risk it. Look at the dust. Nobody’s been up there for a long time.”

D’Artagnan was flinging open doors, mostly exposing a series of empty rooms until one handle refused to turn. “Here.”

Before anyone could say anything he’d barged the door with his shoulder, bursting it open and promptly falling headlong down the flight of steps beyond.

The swearing that floated back up to them suggested he was relatively unharmed, and Aramis caught Porthos’ eye. “Can you believe there was a time when I was the most reckless person I knew?”

“How did you all meet?” Porthos asked curiously, as they followed d’Artagnan down the steps at a more sedate pace. 

“I knew Athos from before,” Aramis said carefully, unsure how much of his past Athos would have shared.

“In the army?” 

Aramis nodded, relieved. “We helped each other out a few times when it turned out we’d both gone freelance, then realised it made sense to pool our resources.” 

“And d’Artagnan?”

“Hey!” 

They stopped and stared at each other. The bottom of the steps had revealed nothing more than a cramped cellar room, boxes and sacks piled up against the walls, and d’Artagnan sitting on a crate rubbing his bruised shins. But the shout hadn’t come from him. Had, in fact, sounded like a woman.

D’Artagnan was on his feet, looking round wildly. “Constance?” he yelled. “Constance, where are you?”

“Hey! I’m here! Get me out of here, help!”

“It’s coming from over there,” Aramis pointed, and all three of them were soon pulling boxes away from the wall. It didn’t take long to uncover the hidden door and d’Artagnan tried the handle, rattling it irritably.

“What, you thought they were going to leave it unlocked?” Porthos scoffed. “Here, let me.” The door opened outwards so there was no chance of bursting it open, but he dropped to his knees and got out his lock-picks.

“We’re coming,” d’Artagnan yelled. “Hang tight.”

The response from the far side of the door was muffled but to Porthos who was closest to the keyhole it had sounded distinctly like “Well it’s not as if I’m likely to bleeding go anywhere,” and he stifled a laugh. He’d only met Constance briefly, but he’d liked her and was relieved she sounded to be in fighting spirits.

It was the work of a minute to tumble the lock, and they were soon dragging it open. Inside, Constance was huddled on a bench looking pale and frightened, but apparently unharmed.

The room was cold and windowless and distinctly damp underfoot, but they’d at least given her a lamp and a blanket and some food. Taking her into his arms with a cry of relief, it was only then that d’Artagnan discovered she was chained to the wall. Porthos and his lock-picks were deployed once more to good effect, and soon they were all climbing hastily back up the stairs.

Somewhat to their surprise nobody appeared on the scene to interfere with their escape, and soon they were spilling out into the alleyway and running for the boats.

“You’re quiet,” Porthos murmured, noting that Aramis had looked more preoccupied the further they got from the house. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like this. It’s too easy.” Aramis gave him worried eyes. “Things are never this easy.”

“Sometimes life just works out,” Porthos grinned. “Be happy about it. Let’s just get out of here eh, before they come back?”

\--

Having regained the sanctuary of the safehouse, everyone relaxed a fraction.

Constance had regained a little colour in her face, and d’Artagnan’s fears that she’d been mistreated had largely been laid to rest.

“They just shoved me in that hole at gunpoint and left me there,” she complained. “Who were those men?” Looking from one to the other of them in consternation, finally coming to settle on d’Artagnan. “What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.” D’Artagnan sank to his knees beside her and took hold of her hands. “They wanted to get at me, and I guess they figured the easiest way was through you.”

“But why? I mean, why did they want to hurt you? What have you done?”

“It’s – connected to work. I can’t tell you. It’s complicated.”

Constance glared at him. “I have been kidnapped, tied up, held at gunpoint and locked in a fucking cellar. Start making it uncomplicated, or we are finished.”

Edging awkwardly away from the argument, Porthos found himself thinking with relief that at least he and Athos had no secrets between them. It had taken Athos a while to confide in him what it was he did for a living, but at least he had. And before they’d become lovers, too. He knew d’Artagnan had had Constance's own safety at heart but he also knew that finding out d’Artagnan had been keeping such a huge part of his life from her was going to come as a huge shock. He hoped they could work past it.

Thoughts of Athos made him wonder where he was right now, whether he’d been successful in his mission, whether he was okay. Grimaud had almost certainly been heading back to the ball, and the thought that both he and Marcheaux were somewhere at large in the vicinity made Porthos nervous for Athos’ safety. 

He looked at his watch. If all had gone smoothly Athos might even be back at his hotel by now. And he would surely need to know that Constance had been recovered safely. It made sense to go and brief him.

Not wanting to give Aramis the chance to tell him no again, Porthos quickly scrawled a note as to his whereabouts and slipped out of the building.

\--

“How did it go?” 

Having waited a discreet amount of time after she’d emerged from the anteroom so it didn’t look like he’d been aware of her location, Athos materialised quietly at Sylvie’s side.

“Good. He wants me to sell you out.” She smirked at him. “De Crecy out, I should say.”

“He bought the story?”

“He wants to believe it. And he’s not got enough know-how to figure it’s all bullshit.” There was no software, at least not as described. The real de Crecys had developed something similar, but Sylvie’s hook of it being able to affect standalone systems had been pure invention. Which was fine up to a point. 

“Do you want the bad news?”

“How did I know there’d be bad news?” Athos sighed.

“He wants a demonstration before he commits.”

“Fuck.” 

“Meaning,” Sylvie leaned in to him as they slow-danced towards the exit, “that he’s probably got no intention of actually buying it, and just wants to take advantage of the demo to get what he wants.”

“Meaning we need a change of plan.” 

“Mmn. By breakfast time tomorrow.”

\--

Porthos had been standing in the hotel lobby for a few minutes, ostentatiously checking his watch and the main doors as if waiting for someone, whilst keeping an eye on the comings and goings around him. No sign of Athos, and he didn’t know what room he was in, but he had a plan.

Sure enough after about ten minutes he got his chance when the receptionist disappeared into the back room. A cautious glance suggested she was completely out of sight, and crossing his fingers Porthos sidled around the desk.

He’d been afraid he’d find a locked computer screen, but the patrons of this establishment liked a bit of old fashioned grandeur and the reservations were inscribed in a ledger in beautiful copperplate. 

Porthos scanned the pages hastily. He wasn’t sure how many nights they’d been staying here, but it couldn’t have been more than a couple. 

There. _De Crecy._ He made a note of the room number and strolled casually back around the desk, trying to look like he belonged. 

Taking the stairs, Porthos tried not to stare too openly at his luxurious surroundings. Most of the jobs he’d worked for the co-operative to date had been in far from salubrious conditions, and even the glamour of the restored ruin he shared with Athos didn’t have a patch on this. Their home was furnished for comfort rather than ostentation, but here everywhere he looked things were covered in gold leaf or draped in expensive tapestries. 

Reaching the third floor, Porthos found to his relief that the corridor was empty and knocked quietly on the door to Athos’ room.

Inside, having just changed out of their ball clothes, Athos and Sylvie exchanged looks of alarm. Athos crossed stealthily to the door and looked through the spyhole, straightening up in surprise when he saw who it was. He pulled open the door quickly, and Porthos stepped inside.

“Athos.” Porthos gave him a happy smile, but to his consternation Athos looked almost alarmed, raising a hand as if in protest, then letting it fall again resignedly.

“What is it? Is something wrong?” Athos asked in an urgent undertone.

“No, no, just the opposite. We found Constance.”

Athos looked at him incredulously. “You came here just to tell me _that_?”

“I thought you’d want to know!” Porthos bristled uncomfortably at Athos’ tone. He looked away and found himself locking eyes with Sylvie, who was giving him the same look of slightly horrified wariness that Athos was.

“Hello Sylvie,” he said shortly. “I’m Porthos.” Wanting her to know who he was, and then wondering bitterly if Athos would even have mentioned him. Remembering, uncomfortably and unwillingly, that Athos had been married to a woman before they met, and that the reason the marriage had broken up was that Athos had been unfaithful. 

Porthos had always squared it in his mind that this was because Athos had really been gay all along and that his extra-marital liaison had had more to do with self-discovery. Now, Porthos was trying to remember if Athos had ever actually told him he was exclusively gay, or if this was just an assumption he’d made. 

“Oh, for - !” Athos threw his hands up in the air, and Sylvie bit her lip, half-way between amusement and awkwardness.

“I know who you are,” Sylvie murmured, giving Porthos a strange look. She picked up her bag and made for the door, touching Athos lightly on the arm as she passed. “I’ll be in the bar.”

“Interrupt something, did I?” Porthos demanded as soon as she’d gone. Trying to keep his gaze on Athos, and not stare accusingly at the rather disarrayed bedding and discarded clothes on the bed behind him.

“Porthos, what the devil are you talking about?” Athos groaned. “What are you even doing here?”

“Just trying to keep you in the loop,” Porthos snapped, thrown by his prickly reception. “But I guess maybe you had your reasons for not wanting me to see you here, huh?”

“Oh I have a whole host of fucking reasons for you not being here,” Athos said through clenched teeth. “The foremost being if this room is bugged then you have just blown my cover and we are probably all dead.”

“Why would the room be bugged?” asked Porthos, taken aback.

Athos visibly struggled for patience. “The people we’re dealing with are not known for their trusting natures. If they have even a whisper of a suspicion that Sylvie and I aren’t who we say we are, we may well be under specific surveillance. Jesus, even if they do believe we’re the de Crecys we’re probably still being watched. Do you get it now?”

“I just wanted to see you,” Porthos muttered. “To know you were okay, and that you knew what the score was.”

“Aramis has been keeping me up to speed. Discreetly,” Athos added pointedly. “Or do you not trust him either now?”

“I never said I didn’t trust you,” Porthos said uncomfortably, but his eyes kept getting drawn back to the double bed with its rumpled covers and he knew Athos had noticed.

Athos hissed with frustration. “You knew what this job entailed!”

“I didn’t know you’d be sharing a bed,” Porthos shot back.

“We’re supposed to be newlyweds, it was going to look a little fucking odd if we asked for separate rooms!”

“But – I mean, you’re sleeping on the couch, right?”

Athos just looked at him in disbelief. “Porthos, either you trust me or you don’t, either way you need to leave. Right now.” He grabbed the room service trolley that was standing by the door and shoved it at him. “Here. Go out via the kitchens. At least try and look like you had a reason for being in here.”

Giving him a look of hurt betrayal, Porthos went without another word.

\--


	2. Chapter 2

Downstairs, Athos spied Sylvie sitting at the bar and slid silently onto the adjacent stool. 

"Everything alright?" she murmured, under cover of seemingly leaning in for a welcoming kiss.

"Fine," Athos said shortly, then managed a reluctant smile as she slid a drink across to him.

"Thanks."

"Thought you might need it." She caught his eye in the mirror behind the bar. "Anything I need to know?"

Athos shook his head irritably, embarrassed by Porthos' unnecessary appearance on the scene. 

"Right. Well. Since I've been sat here I've noticed something that might be something or it might be nothing," Sylvie told him, tactfully changing the subject. "See the door in the opposite corner behind us, marked staff only?"

Athos glanced casually into the mirror and gave a slight nod.

"Well in the last ten minutes three of the people Feron was with at the ball have gone in there. Including Grimaud."

"Could be significant," Athos agreed, studying the rest of the room through the mirror. It wasn't packed, but it was certainly busy enough for them to be noticed. And the door would almost certainly be locked if it was hiding anything interesting. "As far as I know, Feron owns this place. So how do we get in without being seen?"

Sylvie just looked at him, then jabbed backwards sharply with her elbow at a box on the wall behind her. A second later the wail of a fire alarm went off.

"Subtle." 

"Effective," Sylvie countered, as they joined the throng of people obediently shuffling out into the foyer, several still clutching their overpriced drinks. Avoiding the staff calmly directing people out of the main entrance they ducked into the cloakroom and hid amongst the coat racks.

"What happens if they decide the fire alarm doesn't apply to them?" Athos muttered.

"We go to Plan B."

What's that?"

"Fuck knows. But I reckon they'll come down. These old buildings go up like a torch."

Sure enough a minute or so later she nudged him in the ribs and they watched Grimaud, Marcheaux and two others walk past.

"Let's go." They slipped back inside and through the door, Sylvie making short work of the lock.

On the other side they found themselves on a narrow stone staircase, stretching both up and down.

"Which way?"

"Well, there are two of us," Sylvie pointed out. "Unless you're afraid of exploring alone?"

Athos snorted. "For that, you get to go up."

They separated, Athos slipping quietly downward. There were bulkhead lights at intervals, dim but giving enough light to see by. At the bottom the steps ended abruptly, dark water glistening with oily rainbows lapping at a narrow stone platform. An old iron gate gave a glimpse of the canal beyond, with a second door at the end of the ledge presumably leading into the basement of the hotel. 

Given the current water levels the room beyond was most likely half-flooded, but Athos noticed the door handle was remarkably clean, given the corrosion and decay everywhere else. He reached out cautiously and turned the handle. To his surprise it clicked open under his hand, but before he could pull it open the door burst outward under some pressure from within, sending him flying.

Before he could recover his balance someone had sprung out of the darkness beyond and tackled him, getting in several weighty blows before Athos could mount a counter attack.

Dazed and bruised, he struggled to fight off his attacker, the momentum of the fight swinging one way and then the other as they rolled to and fro on the narrow ledge.

Managing to get up only to have his legs swept from under him by a particularly vicious kick, Athos suddenly found his head in the water, and a choking grip around his throat holding him there. 

Tearing frantically at hands around him, Athos fought the instinct to breathe in. He could feel himself weakening, black spots dancing in front of his eyes, and struck out blindly.

Suddenly, the pressure was gone and Athos hauled himself out of the water, coughing violently. To his surprise, his assailant was lying out cold on the wet stone floor with Sylvie standing over him breathing hard, wielding a length of what looked like lead pipe.

"You okay?" she checked and Athos nodded wearily. 

"Another minute and I'd have had him." 

Sylvie snorted with laughter. "You mean thank you for saving your arse."

"Yeah. That too." Athos accepted a hand up, then kept hold of her hand a second longer. "Seriously. Thanks."

She shrugged it off with a smile, and he frowned. 

"How did you know I was in trouble? Or was it a dead end further up?"

"No." Sylvie was studying the shadowy corners up near the ceiling, and finally spotted what she was looking for. "You were on candid camera."

Athos followed the line of her gaze and gave a low whistle when he picked out the lens. "I guess this is their back door after all. There's a security station up there?"

"Come and see." Sylvie gave him an impish grin. "The climb'll warm you up."

\--

Five floors later, they arrived at a door leading into a room in the eaves of the hotel, and the sight inside immediately took Athos' mind off the climb. Banks of split-screen computer monitors displayed both the deserted public spaces of the evacuated hotel, and the palazzo opposite still thronged with party-goers.

"Nothing being recorded inside the bedrooms as far as I can see," Sylvie reported to Athos' relief, "but this is interesting." She tapped through a menu screen, and the live feed from an empty room in the palazzo was replaced by an earlier recording showing the very people they were investigating.

"Is there sound?"

"Yep." Muted conversation came through at the touch of another key, and Athos slowly sank into a chair as he listened to the discussion, which was clearly taking place just after Sylvie had left them.

"Can we get a copy of this before they come back?" Eyeing the screen that showed the people milling about crossly outside in the courtyard, trying to pick out Feron and the others.

"Sure. I was about to when I noticed your little altercation on one of the other screens," Sylvie told him with a smirk, dropping into one of the chairs.

Athos was fiddling with the other workstation to see what else might be of interest. Various rooms seemed to have been under observation, but then he discovered one live feed seemed to be coming from elsewhere. He twitched the headset jack out to listen and to his surprise what came out of the speakers was Aramis' voice.

"What the hell?"

They looked at each other. "Is that - ?" Sylvie started, and Athos nodded grimly. 

"How the fuck are they getting this? How do they know where they are?" 

D'Artagnan's voice chipped in, and given that the relaxed conversation seemed to be about what they were going to have for supper they certainly didn't appear to be aware they were under surveillance.

Athos was about to speak when a third voice came over the speakers, and he cut himself off, rethinking rapidly. "Constance. That’s how."

“You surely don’t think she’s in on it?” Sylvie asked, astonished. 

"No. But it’s possible they were meant to find her." Athos started interrogating the various options and wishing that Aramis was here, being more technically minded. He preferred things he could threaten for an answer.

"Shit." 

"What?" Sylvie leaned over his shoulder to look at the city map that he'd brought up. 

"They're tracking her."

"Constance?"

"Yes. Marcheaux must have known d'Artagnan and the others would come looking for her. He's set them up."

"But why? What's the point?"

"This way he knows exactly where they are, on his turf, and they have no idea he's coming. It was never about Constance. She was just bait. They must have been lead right to her."

"Can you warn them?" 

"I don't have any way of contacting them, I didn't want to carry anything that would be incriminating if I was searched." Athos thought for a second, half-listening to the ongoing conversation through the speakers and noting one absent voice. He frowned. "I've got an idea. You stay here, get the copy of Feron’s negotiations. If my hunch plays out I may be able to get word to them, if not I'm just going to have to go there myself." He double-checked the location showing on the tracker screen, and giving Sylvie's shoulder a quick squeeze of encouragement let himself out of the door, hurrying back down the narrow steps.

He walked boldly out of the main door of the hotel, wincing at the alarms that were still squawking, and made his way in plain sight across the courtyard, disappearing into a more secluded alley that ran between the buildings and down to the canal.

Once alone, he looked around him carefully. "Porthos?" he called quietly. "You there?"

After a moment a shadow detached itself from the wall and came over, resolving into Porthos under the faint light of the upper windows. 

"How did you know I'd still be here?" he asked suspiciously.

"Lucky guess," said Athos with a thin smile. "I figured you might be keeping an eye on me when you didn't seem to be back with the others." He explained the situation quickly, and Porthos went from looking defiantly embarrassed at having been rumbled, to alarmed.

He tried calling Aramis' phone, and then d'Artagnan's, to no avail. "Not answering," he said grimly. "Either of them. That's not good."

"You have to get back to them," Athos said. "They may need help." He cast a look back at the hotel, torn. If Sylvie had overheard anything significant or alarming from the live feed he assumed she'd have come after him, but on the other hand her first priority had to be the task at hand. He made up his mind. "I'll come with you. She'll know where we are."

"Alright. This way then - " Porthos' words were drowned out by the roar of a massive explosion, and they looked up in horror to see the whole top floor of the building blow out in a fireball.

They ducked instinctively under the balcony of the building opposite, as burning debris and bits of masonry showered down around them. Athos was staring up at the ruined shell with a look of fixed horror. 

"Sylvie?" Porthos ventured, feeling shocked to his core. Whatever his feelings about her, and whatever of the truth of the matter, he'd never wished her harm.

"She'll have got out," Athos said hoarsely. "She's not daft. She'll - she'll be fine."

Porthos made up his mind. "Go. Find her." Athos blinked at him, and Porthos gave him a little shove. "I'll get back to the others, warn them. You help Sylvie. _Go! _"__

__Athos jerked back into life, nodding convulsively. "Thank you." He reached out as Porthos turned to go, and caught his sleeve. "Porthos."_ _

__"Yeah?" Porthos turned back, anxious to be off, worried that a similar fate might be in store for the others._ _

__"I love you."_ _

__Porthos stared at him for a second, then his face crinkled into a reluctant smile. "Yeah. I know."_ _

__Athos gave a husky laugh, then turned and ran._ _

__\--_ _

__With staff guarding the main entrance to prevent guests going back for their possessions, Athos traced the line of the wall until he located a service entrance beside a low jetty. Darting inside he found himself emerging a moment later into the space behind the watergate at the foot of the back stairs. Of the man Sylvie had knocked out earlier there was no sign, and Athos started to climb._ _

__The stairwell was full of smoke. Pulling the collar of his coat over his nose and mouth Athos fought his way up, floor after floor until he could go no further, finding the way into the top storey blocked by rubble. The ceilings had come down and there were electrical cables sparking dangerously in the ruins._ _

__"Sylvie?" Athos yelled, his eyes watering. The air was full of dust as well as smoke up here. "Sylvie, where are you?"_ _

__A slithering noise nearby seemed to be caused by a movement beneath the heaps of plaster and he climbed across to it, digging frantically through the rubble. A filthy hand finally broke through and he grasped it in relief, before heaving the rest of the covering debris away until a coughing, swearing Sylvie could climb out._ _

__He helped her stagger back down the stairwell and out into the cold night air._ _

__"What happened?"_ _

__"They boobytrapped the damn system," Sylvie told him. "Soon as I started trying to copy stuff it must have triggered a countdown – or maybe they did it remotely, I don't know, it might have been an alarm. Anyway, I was checking out the cabinets while I was waiting and I found this explosive set-up with a bloody countdown on it."_ _

__"So did you get the download?"_ _

__Sylvie punched him in the arm. "I'm fine, thanks for asking."_ _

__Athos smirked. "But you did?"_ _

__"Piss off." Sylvie broke into a smile. "Course I did. Here, what are you still doing here, anyway, I thought you were supposed to be helping the others?"_ _

__"I got distracted by you trying to blow yourself up," Athos retorted. "I found Porthos, he's gone to warn them. But we'd better get there as soon as we can."_ _

__\--_ _

__“So let me get this straight. You’re some kind of spy?” Constance was staring at d’Artagnan with a mixture of suspicion and disbelief, and he put his head in his hands, mostly so he wouldn’t have to see Aramis smirking at him. He was enjoying this entirely too much, d’Artagnan felt._ _

__The argument had been going on for some time and d’Artagnan had hoped in vain that once she’d eaten, Constance might have dropped the matter._ _

__An empty pizza box lay between them on the makeshift table, a single solitary slice left for Porthos. After Aramis found his note, he’d said this was more than he deserved._ _

__It wasn’t that he was particularly worried Porthos would screw things up, Aramis mused, listening to d’Artagnan try and dig himself out of two years of telling Constance he was an international courier. He just knew things tended to go pear-shaped when people rushed off to follow their own agendas rather than trusting the team. He’d done it himself often enough, after all._ _

__Despite this prickling sense of unease he still missed it, and kicked himself bitterly for it afterwards. When he heard the door open and footsteps cross the outer room, Aramis simply assumed that Porthos had returned, probably with a flea in his ear from Athos for risking his cover. So when the door burst open and a man strolled in holding a gun on them, he was as taken aback as the rest._ _

__“Well well, look what we have here. Three rats in a trap.”_ _

__“Marcheaux!” D’Artagnan leaped to his feet angrily, then froze as the gun swung to cover him._ _

__“Now now. No heroics darling. Not in front of the girlie. Wouldn’t want a bullet to go astray now, would we?”_ _

__D’Artagnan reluctantly subsided, taking Constance’s hand protectively._ _

__“You too. Get over there with them.” Marcheaux gestured at Aramis and he moved over to stand with the others, gritting his teeth. They’d been caught with their metaphorical pants down, unarmed and unprepared. But how the hell had Marcheaux found them? He’d swear they hadn’t been followed here._ _

__“Where’s your friend?”_ _

__“Which friend?” Aramis asked, a cold chill running down his spine as he wondered whether Athos had been compromised._ _

__“Don’t play games. I know three of you came here.”_ _

__Porthos then. It was a relief on one level, but at the same time – _how_ did he know?_ _

__“He went back to England.” With Porthos at large at least they had a chance of rescue, Aramis thought. They were lucky Marcheaux hadn’t just shot them all in cold blood. But he was clearly a man who needed to crow about his victory, and that might just be enough to save them._ _

__“You expect me to believe that?” Marcheaux scanned the mostly-bare room, as if Porthos might be hiding behind a crate. His eyes lit on the remains of the pizza, and he grinned. “Oh now this is kind of you.” He picked up the last slice, and took a bite._ _

__“Oi. I think you’ll find that’s mine.”_ _

__All eyes had been on Marcheaux, and the quiet voice from the doorway made everybody jump. Marcheaux spun round but too late; Porthos was covering him with a pistol._ _

__“Drop it.”_ _

__Marcheaux threw the remains of the pizza back in the box, and Porthos glared at him._ _

__“The gun, you dipstick.”_ _

__“Oh.” There was a second when Marcheaux clearly considered chancing his arm, but Porthos’ aim was steady and his expression was hard. He sighed, and gave up his gun to Aramis._ _

__“Good boy.”_ _

__“Not so fast.” There was an ominous click behind him, and Porthos froze as the cold metal barrel of a gun was pressed to his temple._ _

__Grimaud. And behind him, two anonymous hard-faced men, also armed._ _

__Across the room Marcheaux yanked his own gun back from Aramis with a squinty-eyed smile._ _

__“Sorry.” Having been relieved of his weapon, Porthos had been packed off to stand with the others. “I ballsed that up. Should have figured he wasn’t on his own.”_ _

__“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” Marcheaux demanded, that fact he hadn’t been alone apparently coming as a surprise to him as well._ _

__“Apart from saving your arse you mean?” Grimaud gave him a mocking smile. “You’re needed. Somebody triggered the failsafe in the control room. Blew the whole fucking lot sky-high. Somebody’s onto us, we don’t have time for your little personal vendetta any more. So just shoot the scum and be done with it, let’s get out of here.”_ _

__Aramis caught Porthos’ eye, looked a silent question at him. Porthos nodded slightly._ _

__“Athos is fine,” he said under his breath. “Not sure about Sylvie. He went back to look for her.”_ _

__“Does he know where we are?”_ _

__Porthos’ nod came as a relief, but his words didn’t._ _

__“Yeah, cause it looks like they planted a bug and tracker on Constance. They were listening to every word we said.” Thankful now that he hadn’t said out loud he was going to meet Athos._ _

__“What?” Constance looked horrified and starting patting frantically at her clothes, but their muted exchange had drawn attention and one of the men who’d come in with Grimaud stepped forward, pointing at Porthos._ _

__“I know him. He was at the hotel. Showed up on the screens, before we were evacuated.”_ _

__“Doing what?” Grimaud swung round, suddenly wondering if there was a connection with the explosion. He’d gone along with Marcheaux’s little vengeance plot mostly as a favour but up to now he’d had no reason to think their presence in the city had anything to do with anything other than recovering Constance._ _

__“He went in to see de Crecy.” The man pulled out his phone, called up archived system footage. “Yeah. Definitely him.”_ _

__Grimaud looked at Porthos who was silently kicking himself, and narrowed his eyes. “You got any footage of de Crecy?”_ _

__“Yeah, hang on – there.” The man held out the screen and Grimaud glanced at it, then did a double-take._ _

__“Let me see that – that’s not de Crecy!”_ _

__“It’s not?”_ _

__“No. His name’s Athos de la Fère, and he works with this bunch of misfits.” Grimaud threw a filthy glance at the others, who all looked immediately indignant. “I’ve been trying to track him down since we crossed paths in Cartagena a couple of years ago.” Grimaud rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “I owe him a mouthful of stitches.”_ _

__At the sheer menace in his voice Porthos went abruptly from hoping Athos showed up soon to fervently hoping he kept his distance. What this man might do to him should he get Athos at his mercy didn’t bear thinking about._ _

__“Call Feron,” Grimaud snapped. “Let him know he’s dealing with a fake. Bloody idiot’s compromised all of us.”_ _

__“He was dealing with the wife - ”_ _

__Grimaud rounded on him. “You think she’s going to be any more legit do you? Or do you happen to think the genuine article just didn’t happen to notice her husband was looking a bit different this morning?”_ _

__The unfortunate man looked back at his phone awkwardly. “No signal in here.”_ _

__“Then I suggest you go and fucking find one!”_ _

__The man disappeared smartly through the door and Porthos realised that explained why he hadn’t been able to get hold of Aramis or d’Artagnan earlier._ _

__“Look, are we just going to stand here and let them shoot us?” Constance whispered indignantly. “There’s more of us than them, now matey’s gone.”_ _

__“Yes, but they’re armed and we’re not,” Aramis pointed out in an undertone._ _

__“She’s got a point,” d’Artagnan put in. “I’ve never been a fan of firing squads.”_ _

__“If we rush them, the chances are at least one of us will get shot,” Aramis muttered. “Are you willing to risk that being Constance?”_ _

__Constance glared at him. “If we do nothing then we all get shot, how does that help? What would you do if I wasn’t here?”_ _

__The others exchanged a look and Aramis sighed. “Fine. But I wish we had a diversion. Where the bloody hell’s Athos?”_ _

__Porthos looked grim. “If Sylvie was hurt in that explosion – if she needed help – he may not come.”_ _

__“Great. Then we’re on our own.” Aramis eyed their captors assessingly. They’d been having an argument amongst themselves, but there’d never been less that two guns pointing their way at any one time._ _

__“Enough.” Grimaud brought the other discussion to an abrupt end and Aramis winced, hoping they hadn’t missed their chance. “Where’s Bennett? Why’s he taking so bloody long? Nichols –”_ _

__“I’ll go and look.” As soon as Nichols went out there was a moment of tension as they all psyched themselves up to charge, but a moment later he came back in looking puzzled._ _

__“He’s gone.”_ _

__“What do you mean he’s gone?” Grimaud demanded._ _

__“I mean he’s not there. He’s disappeared.”_ _

__Grimaud and Marcheaux exchanged suspicious glances. “This ends now,” Grimaud said. “We’re wasting time here. Kill them.”_ _

__“No!” D’Artagnan threw himself in front of Constance as Marcheaux stepped forward. “Look, let Constance go, can’t you? She’s not part of this, it’s me you want. You don’t have to kill her.”_ _

__Marcheaux shook his head. “No can do. She’s a witness. Besides, if I’m not going to have the opportunity to make you suffer for as long as I’d wanted to, I figure having to watch her die should be quite painful, right? It’ll have to do.”_ _

__“You’re a monster.”_ _

__“No, just easily bored.” Marcheaux grinned nastily at him. “Oh, and I bear a grudge. You really shouldn’t have taken my ship you little shit.”_ _

__“Who are you calling little?” d’Artagnan squared up to him indignantly and Marcheaux swung a punch, the urge to beat the crap out of him overriding the need to shoot him._ _

__Taking advantage of the sudden confusion Aramis threw himself at Grimaud and a split second later Porthos landed on top of Nichols, bellowing._ _

__The room was in uproar. Aramis seized Grimaud’s wrists in an effort to prevent him bringing the gun up, but a split second later was staggering backwards, stunned, as Grimaud viciously head-butted him._ _

__Dazed, Aramis hit the wall and tried to blink his vision clear, expecting any moment to feel a bullet tearing through his flesh, but Grimaud had taken one disgusted look around the room and fled through the doorway, giving it up as a bad job and abandoning his fellows without a second’s remorse._ _

__Aramis looked round. Marcheaux seemed to have lost his gun and was attempting to choke d’Artagnan to death with his bare hands, while Constance was literally hanging from Marcheaux’s neck, feet off the floor, trying to prise him off. Porthos and Nichols were locked in hand-to-hand combat in the other corner, trading blows and kicks and looking worryingly evenly matched, despite the size difference._ _

__Aramis picked up a chair. “Constance, duck.”_ _

__She glanced his way then dropped off Marcheaux’s back with a squeal of alarm a moment before the chair splintered over his head._ _

__D’Artagnan extricated himself from beneath Marcheaux’s unconscious body, groaning._ _

__“Took your time.”_ _

__“You looked like you were having fun.” Aramis moved to help Porthos, and froze._ _

__Porthos had size and weight and a certain back-street fighting style on his side, but the wiry Nichols had proved to be proficient in some kind of martial arts and Porthos had had a hard job even keeping hold of the wriggly little bastard._ _

__Somehow against the odds Nichols had managed to immobilise Porthos in a painful looking armlock, and for the second time in twenty minutes Porthos had a gun pressed to his temple. He was beginning to feel it really wasn’t his day._ _

__“Nobody move.” Nichols licked dry lips and eyed the room nervously, realising he was the only one left standing. D’Artagnan made a sudden move towards Marcheaux’s gun where it lay on the floor and Nichols screamed at him. “I said don’t move! Or I put a bullet through your friend. Is that what you want?”_ _

__Nervous tension making him jumpy, Nichols glared at them each in turn. “Maybe I’ll just kill the lot of you anyway, huh?” Realising that if he moved quickly enough he could do it, they were all unarmed. “Mr Grimaud would be pleased with that, I reckon. Could even mean a bonus.” Talking himself into it, working up the courage._ _

__“I don’t think so.”_ _

__At the unexpected voice Nichols jumped and Porthos flinched, thinking the way today was going it would be just his luck to get shot by accident. But his heart soared at the sight of the man in the doorway, pointing a gun steadily at Nichols._ _

__Athos._ _

__“De Crecy,” said Nichols automatically, then frowned. “No. It’s not, is it?” Adjusting his hold on the pistol, grinding the barrel painfully into Porthos’ skin. “What did you do with Bennett?” Nichols added suspiciously, recognising the gun Athos was holding as belonging to his colleague._ _

__“Oh, he’s having a nice little nap. Maybe you’d like to join him?”_ _

__Nichols glowered at him. “Here’s the deal. You’re going to let me walk out that door with your mate here, and as soon as I’m away and I’m sure you haven’t followed me, I’ll let him go. How’s that?”_ _

__“You expect me to believe you?” Athos asked coldly. “The only way out of here’s by boat. You’d never manage to negotiate that on your own while keeping someone Porthos’ size hostage. You’ll shoot him as soon as you’re out the door. No deal. Give yourself up, and we’ll let you live.”_ _

__“Bad choice.” Porthos felt Nichols tense, felt the muscles in his arm flex, his hand tighten as he prepared to pull the trigger and had a split second to know he was dead before the gunshot echoed round the room._ _

__There was a moment of utter frozen stillness, Porthos’ face painted with blood. And then Nichols toppled backwards, a neat hole through his forehead._ _

__Athos lowered his gun, finally allowing himself to breathe and Porthos took a shaky step forwards._ _

__“You – Jesus.” Blinking at Athos and wiping Nichols’ blood from his cheek. “You – ”_ _

__“Are you alright?”_ _

__Porthos managed a nod, and suddenly Athos had his arms round him and they were clinging to each other in wordless relief._ _

__“What if you’d missed?” Porthos asked somewhat hoarsely, as they finally pulled back._ _

__Athos looked surprised. “I never miss.”_ _

__Aramis caught Porthos’ eye and winked. “He _almost_ never misses.”_ _

__“Where’s Sylvie?” d’Artagnan ventured, wondering if the worst had happened in the explosion as Athos seemed to be alone._ _

__“She went after Grimaud,” Athos explained. “We tried to stop him, but he got past us.” Rubbing a bruised jaw in recollection._ _

__Porthos stared at him, startled that Athos had let her go after such a dangerous man alone, then realising why. Athos had been worried about him._ _

__He gave him a tentative smile, but Athos was no longer looking his way._ _

__“I’d go after them, but I have no idea where Grimaud was headed,” Athos sighed._ _

__“Back to tip off Feron probably,” Aramis suggested. “You’ve been rumbled, by the way.”_ _

__“Have I? Oh well.” Athos looked surprisingly unconcerned by this, then patted his pocket with a slight smile when he caught their expressions. “We’ve got the evidence we need. Sylvie managed to download quite a significant amount of their private discussions before the place went up.”_ _

__The sound of the outer door opening and closing made them all tense and Athos drew his gun again, covering the doorway and gesturing for the others to move back out of any line of fire._ _

__Aramis and Porthos settled either side of the open door, toting the guns recovered from Marcheaux and Nichols. D’Artagnan stood over Marcheaux where he lay groggily on the floor, warning him with a threatening finger to the lips not to make any warning noises._ _

__Everyone stared fixedly at the darkened opening, realising belatedly what good targets they made with the lights on in here. Footsteps came closer, then –_ _

__“Hello?”_ _

__The wary voice was female, and everyone sagged with relief._ _

__“Sylvie. You can come in, it’s safe,” Athos called and a second later she appeared in the doorway, to everyone’s surprise soaked to the skin and trailing canal water._ _

__“Hey guys.”_ _

__Aramis bit back a laugh. “What happened to you?”_ _

__“Grimaud got away. Sorry.” Sylvie gave Athos an apologetic look. “I nearly had him, but – yeah.”_ _

__“What did he do, make you walk the plank?” Aramis enquired, and she aimed a squelchy kick at him._ _

__“Not quite. But yeah, so I kind’ve ended up in the canal.”_ _

__“You’re safe, that’s the main thing,” Athos told her sincerely. “And we have what we came for.” He looked round at the others with a tired smile. “What do you say we all go home?”_ _

__\--_ _

__Three days later they were mostly all together again, Aramis, d’Artagnan and Constance having joined Athos and Porthos at the manor for the weekend. Constance had been promised the whole story, and Porthos privately suspected Athos and Aramis had elected to do it here rather than show her where the flat they used as a headquarters was._ _

__He was annoyed with himself for being cynical, but he’d been in a blue mood ever since they got back and couldn’t shake it. He’d assumed that once they were safely home – and away from the others – that he and Athos would talk about what had happened in Venice, would have a frank exchange of views and lay everything out in the open. But somehow they just – hadn’t. It wasn’t that they weren’t talking, either. They were being perfectly civil to each other, almost painfully so, as if both afraid if they triggered an argument things would be said that couldn’t be taken back._ _

__They were at least still sharing a bed at night, and if somehow they hadn’t actually had sex since they came back, well, you didn’t have to be at it all the time, did you, Porthos told himself miserably. They would lie in the darkness, silently holding each other close, and it was this that gave Porthos his one thread of hope._ _

__Athos, he sensed, would be happy enough never to talk about any of his feelings ever and just let the memory of their argument fade into history, but Porthos couldn’t let it go. He simultaneously hated himself for needing reassurance and resented Athos for not giving it to him._ _

__He’d been dreading the weekend but actually, having the others here and showing them round had cheered him up a little. Constance had never been before, d’Artagnan only fleetingly, and Aramis it transpired had only visited when the house had still been intact, before the devastating fire that had reduced it to a ruin._ _

__It had been Porthos’ hard work and vision that had restored one wing to a habitable and comfortable home, created two snug cottages out of the other and over-seen the construction of a huge glasshouse over part of the flattened central range. This latter had been Athos’ fantasy and Porthos had made it a reality for him in the days before he’d begun working as a full-time member of the co-operative. It was full of enormous plants and elegantly distressed furniture, a Victorian dream melded with modern convenience, and it was Athos’ favourite room in the house._ _

__They were all sitting out there now, sharing a meal and mostly talking about the transformation of the manor rather than straying into anything work-related._ _

__Athos excused himself to fetch something from the oven and after a second Porthos followed, offering to help._ _

__While Athos was decanting chicken pieces from a baking tray into a serving bowl, Porthos studied the wine-rack, wondering whether to take some in._ _

__“Is this supposed to be a celebration, or just a de-brief?” Porthos asked. Everyone’s mood had seemed a little strained, as if it wasn’t just he and Athos that were avoiding certain conversations. Maybe a drink would help._ _

__Athos shrugged. “No reason it can’t be both. It wasn’t a bad outcome. Marcheaux in jail for kidnapping, Bennett in custody, Feron answering some very awkward questions from the powers that be, thanks to our recovering those private conversations of his.” Athos stared out of the kitchen window thoughtfully. “Grimaud’s still out there somewhere though. That’s annoying.”_ _

__“You’d better be careful. He’ll be holding a grudge,” Porthos said, having been low-key worrying about this ever since, but Athos waved it away._ _

__“He’ll lie low for a while. All his allies have been arrested. Besides,” Athos added with a rueful sideways look at Porthos. “Lots of people hold a grudge against me. It’s rarely fatal.”_ _

__Porthos sighed. They were going to have to talk about this at some point._ _

__"No Sylvie today?" he ventured. He’d not especially been looking forward to it, but she was conspicuous by her absence._ _

__"I didn't invite her," Athos admitted, adding after a slight hesitation, "I thought you might not like it."_ _

__Porthos snorted. "Didn't care so much for my feelings in Venice."_ _

__"That was different. This is your home," Athos protested. "I've no wish to make you feel uncomfortable."_ _

__Porthos gave him an eloquent look, and Athos sighed defeatedly._ _

__"Look – Sylvie and I – she's just a friend, okay? A colleague. We've never slept together. Ever. I give you my word."_ _

__The knot of tension Porthos had been carrying around for days eased slightly._ _

__"That was all you needed to say, you know," he muttered. "In Venice."_ _

__"I was angry," Athos admitted. "I was in the middle of an undercover op that had taken months to set up and you were in danger of ballsing it up. And – it felt like you didn't trust me," he added. "I was hurt."_ _

__They stared at each other helplessly._ _

__"Sorry."_ _

__"I’m sorry."_ _

__They both spoke at the same time, then half-laughed as the lingering tension finally melted away and they fell into each other’s arms with a warm and desperate relief._ _

__"Next time? Invite her, yeah?" Porthos said as they finally pulled apart, and Athos gave a grateful nod._ _

__"Thank you."_ _

__Porthos grinned. "Mind you, next time you have to pose as a married man? You're taking me."_ _

__Athos smiled, then bit his lip thoughtfully. "You know – it would help with the authenticity if we were actually married?"_ _

__Porthos stared at him, not quite sure if Athos was saying what he thought he was, but Athos nodded confirmation, reaching for his hand._ _

__"Will you marry me, Porthos?" he asked quietly._ _

__Too choked up to speak, Porthos could only nod, and Athos gave a breathy laugh of relief. "You will?"_ _

__Porthos nodded again, and Athos pulled him back into his arms, kissing him softly._ _

__"Yes," Porthos managed finally, forming the word against Athos' lips. "Yes, I will. Do you mean it?"_ _

__"Of course I mean it," Athos smiled, and squeezed him tight. “I don’t want anyone but you,” he whispered._ _

__Porthos pulled back to look at him. “You don’t have to marry me to prove that,” he said, but Athos just smiled._ _

__“I want to marry you. I love you.”_ _

__Relieved, Porthos kissed him firmly, beaming. "Do you think anyone would mind if we snuck off to bed?" he wondered, making Athos laugh._ _

__"We should probably at least give the others the good news first."_ _

__Porthos conceded this was probably more polite, and they walked back out to the conservatory hand in hand, Athos remembering to pick up the bowl of chicken wings at the last second, and Porthos grabbing a bottle of champagne from the fridge._ _

__They found the atmosphere distinctly more frosty than when they'd left it, and exchanged puzzled glances._ _

__"Did we miss something?" Athos asked._ _

__"Constance wants in," d'Artagnan explained, looking like he wished he was currently anywhere but here._ _

__"I could be useful," Constance blurted. "You know I could. You need someone keeping track of things for you, sorting out your accounts, dealing with - how the hell do you invoice people anyway? Do you even file taxes? Somebody needs to be thinking about all this for you, and I could do it easily." She folded her arms. "I'm not asking to do the dangerous stuff, although frankly I don't see why I couldn't. Sylvie does. But just - just to help."_ _

__Athos glanced at d'Artagnan. It wasn't actually a bad idea, but the atmosphere suggested it hadn't been received with enthusiasm, and he wasn't going to contradict his colleagues if they were both set against it._ _

__"You don't agree?"_ _

__D'Artagnan cleared his throat. "No, no I don't mind. I don't have a problem with it," he said hastily, carefully not catching anyone's eye._ _

__"It's him," Constance said darkly, jerking a thumb at Aramis. "He won't even discuss it."_ _

__"I just think it's a bad idea," Aramis protested, finally able to get a word in. "You're a couple, it's - it's going to be hard for you to remain objective. Won't you worry horribly, knowing what d'Artagnan's out there facing?"_ _

__Constance gave him an incredulous glare. "What am I supposed to do instead, go back to sitting at home not knowing where he is? You think that's somehow better?" She gestured at Athos and Porthos. "They're a couple, and I don't see you suggesting they can't be objective. Which leads me to conclude it's just because I'm a woman, which makes you an arsehole."_ _

__Athos and Porthos glanced at each other with a faint prickle of guilt, knowing that they hadn't managed to be nearly as professional about things as was being suggested. "Movin' on," Porthos muttered under his breath, and Athos stifled a laugh._ _

__Aramis was trying again. "Alright, look at it this way, could you really send d'Artagnan off on a mission knowing full well he might be killed?"_ _

__"I'd have no trouble sending you," Constance retorted, and this time it was Porthos who laughed, turning it quickly into a cough._ _

__"She's got a point," Athos said, keeping a straight face with some difficulty when Aramis glared at him indignantly. "I mean - if Constance took over the admin side of things, it would free you up to do a lot more fieldwork."_ _

__Aramis opened his mouth to object, then closed it again, giving the point fair consideration. Under the terms of their agreement any one of them could veto a proposal, and the others watched him mull it over silently._ _

__"Well, I suppose - we could give it a try. See how it goes," Aramis said grudgingly._ _

__Constance gave a happy squeal and gave Aramis a hug to show there were no hard feelings. He hugged her back, laughing in surprise._ _

__"We should celebrate," Constance declared, reaching for the champagne bottle, and Athos cleared his throat._ _

__"Before that, can I add something?" He glanced at Porthos, who nodded approval. "I would just like to say that - well - Porthos has just agreed to marry me."_ _

__His next words were lost in a chorus of congratulations, and both he and Porthos were showered with everyone's best wishes._ _

__"We're going to need more champagne at this rate," Porthos grinned, as large glasses were handed round._ _

__Athos gave him an amused smile, clutching a brimming glass in one hand and wrapping his other arm firmly around Porthos' waist._ _

__"Fortunately, I happen to know where there's a cellar full."_ _

__\--_ _

**Author's Note:**

> There is now an additional 'missing scene' in the comments below - starting [here](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/131775464).


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